Tag Archives: Bestiality
Protected: A Linguistically Mysterious Voyage into the Unknown
Protected: Pole Position
Protected: V-Day is Cumming
Frankie Gets Fucked
2
Lola awoke in a cold sweat and with a hot, soaked puss.
“What is it?” I asked, startled from unconsciousness suddenly.
“I just had the weirdest wet dream.”
“OK,” I said, realizing that there was no returning to sleep now, “tell me about it.”
“Well, you know how you try to make me jealous talking about what’s her name from what’s that show?”
“You’re going to have to be a bit more definite than that.”
“Anyhow, I had the weirdest dream about her.”
She then proceeded to tell me the following.
She was Casey’s babysitter. Now it was just the two of them, home alone, and she was horny. She had been fapping to Lola Down and the erotica of mysexlifewithlola.com all night. She hadn’t slept. Her sheets were soaked. She wanted to feel another’s flesh on hers, between hers, deep inside hers. She wanted that hot white cum. She wanted to be a slut. She didn’t want him to think of her as that “older woman,” a cougar, beyond the bounds of propriety. She wanted to get down and dirty for him. Shock him. Shake him out of his innocent naivete about women of a certain age. About women in general. About her. She was a woman – a woman with needs, wants, desires, lusts, and deep, dark, hidden shame, disgust, and revulsion. “Debase me,” she thought, “and I can rest in my degradation.”
She led Casey to the bathroom where she had up a poster of Lola Down. She lured him there with a request that he help her “clean the drain. It’s clogged.” He followed her, admiring her ass, against his better judgment. He was ashamed of himself.
She showed him the drain. It was clogged. After only a few minutes, they agreed it was time to call a plumber. He noticed her sex toys strewn around the sink, the bathtub, even next to the toilet. He didn’t say anything. He looked around. She looked at him. It was awkward. In order to break the uncomfortable silence, he looked at the poster and said, “Nice. You?”
They looked nothing alike.
“No, it’s Lola Down. Have you heard of her?”
“No.”
He was shy.
“She likes to fuck.”
“Oh.”
“Do you like to fuck?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Bridgette. Um. I. . .”
“I’m going to take a shower,” she said, removing her clothes. She was naked. She leaned over the sink.
“I guess I’ll get going,” he said, not leaving.
“Fuck me,” she said, protruding her ass back toward him.
“What?”
“You heard me. Fuck me.”
He simply could not believe this was happening.
“Are you a virgin?”
The question took him aback. Was it an insult? Was she demeaning his manhood? He was a virgin, that was for sure.
“I knew it,” she said without a word from him. “Now’s your chance to change that. Fuck me.”
He was fumbling to undo his belt and get out of his pants.
She turned around once she saw in the mirror that he had gotten it out, but not gotten hard. She got on her knees and looked up at him.
“How long have you wanted me to do this?” she said, her lips parted inches away from the tip of his flaccid cock.
“I. . .” He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t deny that he had often masturbated to the thought of her. When she was babysitting and after he went to bed, he had stroked it thinking about her face or about finding her naked in front of the TV asleep. Why had he fantasized about that? Vaguely, as if in a dream, a distant memory rippled across his mind. He saw her, on the couch. He had gotten up in the middle of the night. The TV was on. People were on the TV. It looked like they were fighting, wrestling. They were naked. Her jeans were down by her knees. Her hand was between her legs. She didn’t see him. He just watched. He stood silently on the stairs and watched. She was engrossed in the images on the screen. He noticed something bulging in his pajama bottoms. He didn’t know what it was. A change had come over her. She pulled her hand out of her crotch. She sniffed it. She licked it. She clicked the TV off. She pulled her jeans up. She stood up and walked to the kitchen, away from him. He went unnoticed. He returned to bed, feeling guilty and dizzy. The hard thing in his pajama bottoms wouldn’t go away.
She blew gently onto his detumescent, flagging flesh. It felt good. A tickling, caressing breeze. She put her warm wet lips over that thing. He knew what this was now. He was old enough to know. He never thought it would happen with her. His babysitter, whom he had fantasized about for so long with pangs of guilt. The babysitter he had played football with – who tackled him like a boy with laughs and fun. The babysitter he had cozied up to while eating popcorn and watching “Blue Mountain State” with, against his parent’s wishes while they were gone. The babysitter who had kissed his bruised knee better, causing a tempest of confused feelings in the pit of his stomach.
She moved her mouth, tongue, lips in ways that made his thing grow. It grew hard. She let go and turned around again, facing the mirror.
“Fuck me, Casey,” she insisted.
He moved forward. She was taller than he. He needed to stand on his toes to get the right spot. He couldn’t. She reached back, impatient, grabbed it, pulled it forward violently. “Go in!” she demanded. He went in. She was wet.
She grabbed something from next to the sink. It was a dildo. She covered it with lube of some sort. She passed it to him. “Put this in my ass.”
“What?”
“Put this in my ass,” she repeated.
He took the pointy fake penis and pressed it to the spot. It didn’t go.
She moved her right hand back to the spot. She inserted one, two, three fingers easily.
“Try again.”
He repeated the gesture. It went in.
“Hold it there,” she said.
He held it there.
“OK,” she said a little later, “Pull it out.”
He pulled it out.
“Put your dick in my ass.”
These were very elementary instructions, yet they perplexed him.
“Put. Your. Dick. In. My. Ass.”
He pulled out and put his dick in her ass.
“Harder!”
He tried to go as hard as he could.
“Slap my ass.”
“What?”
“Slap my ass.”
He gave her ass a slight graze with his open palm.
“No, slap it!”
He slapped it.
“Spank it!”
He spanked it.
“Harder. Fucking harder!”
He was hitting her ass as hard as he could with his open palm. It scared him.
“Call me a slut.”
“What?”
His repeated questions were frustrating her.
“Call me a slut!”
“Slut?” he meagerly pronounced.
“Call me a SMILF.”
“SMILF? What’s that?”
“Sitter-Mom I’d Like to Fuck.”
“OK, SMILF.”
“Call me a cunt.”
“You’re, you’re a. . .” he began crying. She could see it in the mirror.
“Fuck, you’re useless. I can’t even feel you in my ass. Pull out.”
He pulled out.
She turned around. She got on her knees again. “How small are you?” she said, observing the thin, diminutive member with wonder. In her haste to fornicate, she hadn’t thought about it much when she had it in her mouth.
She put the toilet seat down. She grabbed a dildo from the bathtub, ran it under the water of the sink and suction-cupped it to the lid of the toilet. She eased her ass down on it.
“Pass me that,” she said, indicating another dildo by the sink.
Casey passed it to her. She took it and inserted it into her pussy.
She had a look of maniacal gratification on her face.
She looked up at him looking at her with wonder. The wonder years, she thought.
She looked down and saw his cock, erect. She realized he must be in incredible discomfort.
“You need to cum?”
“What?” he asked again.
“Shut up and come here,” she said, pulling him towards her with her left hand wrapped around his buttocks.
He involuntarily moved forward. She put his cock in her mouth again, roughly. Her right hand was manipulating the dildo in her pussy. Her left hand controlled him from behind. Her ass slid back-and-forth on the dildo attached to the toilet seat. In her mind she thought about being a sexy cheerleader, the free-use girl of an orgy, a goddess worshipped. She thought about Lola Down. . . .
She was horny.
“Call me a dirty, disgusting, whore.”
He was silent, looking down at her.
Her left hand moved down toward his ass. She fingered his ass and slid a finger up inside.
He suddenly ejaculated in her mouth. The thick, copious cum dribbled out of the corners of her mouth and onto her nipples.
“OK,” she said, “Go.”
“What?”
“Go!”
He pulled up his jeans and left her there on the toilet fucking both her holes.
The next day she called a plumber. A large, middle aged white man showed up. He was unattractive. That suited her just fine. The more disgusting, the better, she thought to herself.
She led him to the bathroom. The same bathroom.
He noticed the sex toys, the poster, the toilet seat with the suction cup dildo attached to it.
“Is this the bathroom or the playroom?” he said with a chuckle.
“A little of both,” she said seductively.
Without much more conversation, they were both naked in the tub. The same tub where it had happened. The thought of it made her feel disgusting and worthless. That’s how she wanted to be treated and that’s how men – real men, like the plumber, not like Casey – treated her.
“What do you think?” asked Frankie, looking up eagerly from the pages in her hand.
“That’s your treatment for the next episode?” asked Zach.
“Yeah. You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So?”
“Well, you’re going to do all that on camera?”
“Yeah. What?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it?”
“Can I ask a favor?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I be there to watch.”
She laughed and leaned in to kiss him. “Only if you call me a dirty little whore while I’m getting fucked.”
“Deal.”
“So you like it?”
“I do, but I don’t think you’re going to get the greenlight to make it.”
“Why not?”
“Frankie, there’s too much that is. . .”
“What?”
“Taboo.”
“I have a way of getting to green.”
“Through the redlight district, no doubt.”
“The way involves a few curves and back roads, but I’ll get there.”
“A dream within a dream?” I asked.
“More like multiple orgasms within an orgasm.”
“I think you need to call Christopher Nolan.”
“Yeah, we could make a film together and call it MetaPorn.”
Protected: A Few Tricks, A Little Treat – Andrew and Jane at it Again!
Smalltown Strumpet – Flaming Lips
Smalltown Strumpet – Part III: Flaming Lips
Continued From: The Doctor Will See You Now
The Flaming Lips
Lo was out of commission. There would be no sexy suntanning in the front yard, no strip club short-short shenanigans, no teasing the townies down Main Street. She spent much of her time submerged in the clawfoot tub or strutting bottomless around the house, airing out her nettle-enflamed pussy. She had to sit on pillows and masturbating was now out of the question. This put her in a very unpleasant mood.
Though I wished to attend to her, I needed to get out of the house, lest I bear the brunt of her frustration with her cunt.
I had been working on an article about bestiality portrayed in art and literature through the centuries and thought I’d mosey down to the local library to continue my studies.
Lo had taken a couple of Tylenol PM and was resting comfortably when I slipped out with my computer and backpack. I figured I had a couple of hours to myself.
The library was a very small brick building. There were two rooms and a small anteroom at the entrance that contained the check-out desk, a couple of computers, and a display table for new books.
I set up in a small corner of the library, sitting in a large, square, worn brown leather club chair that looked like it was at least as old as I am. It was remarkably comfortable and the arms were flat, so they were perfect for resting my books and computer around me conveniently.
I began by looking at a blog from Remittance Girl on “Defending the Indefensible: Bestiality in Erotica.” It was a great place to start my research. She had written the article in response to censorship of erotica authors by PayPal – an infringement of speech that this very author had suffered by that very company! They should call it PrudePal.
In her article she referenced one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman, and his defense of Chris Handley, among others who have been prosecuted for the material they read, write, draw, collect, sell, or possess.
This led me down a rabbit hole into a morass of law, liberty, and lurid content. Thank goodness my chair had its back against the wall because if any local busybody were to see the ‘scholarly studies’ I was researching, there’s no telling what would happen.
Actually, there is a telling what would happen and if you have a moment, I will inform you as to the tempest in a teapot that an oversight by me stirred up in that little hamlet.
I was deep into my investigation of Greek portrayals of bestiality and had about ten different books from the library surrounding my chair when I received a text from Lola. “Where are you, Daddy?”
I guess I won’t be able to start my deep dive into Hokusai and the Japanese tradition of erotic images. I packed up my stuff hastily, leaving behind the library books in their sprawling spread of towers on the armchair.
Perhaps another time I will get back to you with my developed thoughts on the matter.
I drove back to the house where we were staying, to find Lo fully naked and fully submerged in the tub. She looked up at me and said, “I’m wet, and not just because I’m taking a bath.”
“Feeling better?”
“Much,” she said. “But you left me, Daddy!” She pouted.
“I’m sorry Lo, but. . .”
“Shut up and get naked.”
“I’m not going for a swim. There’s only room for one in there.”
“Who said anything about that?” she asked as she put her mouth on the edge of the tub and opened wide. She looked up at me. “Insert your cock. I’ll be your cumdump.”
I did as instructed. She sucked. I fucked (her face). Water splashed around. She contorted in the tub, eventually getting to a position where her legs were going straight up the wall in a “V” formation, her head was tilted back over the opposite side of the tub, and she was squeezing her tits and pulling on her nipples as I fucked her face. With every thrust into her mouth and down her throat, my heavy ball sack was slapping up against her upside-down face, smacking her squarely in the eyes and on the bridge of her nose. She liked it.
Lo, cooling down her flaming lips
Somehow the plug came undone and the water drained out of the tub. Lo moved her hands from her tits to her pussy. She began smacking it hard and then even harder. She slapped her pussy like a mother spanking a very naughty child, with force and anger, until she finally squirted all over the wall of the bathroom. The naughty child crying from the pain, perhaps. Seeing that, I couldn’t control myself any longer and I came directly into Lo’s esophagus. She gagged and nearly puked in the tub from the odd position of the climax.
I was dreading another trip to the hospital!
She jumped out of the tub, coughing and sputtering like she had been tossed at sea. Cum was oozing out of her nostrils and she was struggling to catch her breath. When she finally did, she said something I didn’t quite catch.
“What?” I asked.
“That was awesome,” she repeated.
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“This stinging sensation in my pussy lips really makes for an incredible orgasm.”
“You should sit in poison nettles more often.”
“I think I might be able to have sex now, Daddy.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but my pussy is still burning. Do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Grab a tray of ice cubes from the freezer and meet me in the bedroom.”
I did as she asked, wondering how I was going to get hard again in order to give her what she wanted.
I met her in the bedroom and she was lying on her back.
“Take an ice cube and trace it around my labia,” she said.
I gently applied the cold, slippery, dripping ice to her pussy lips. She loved it.
“Slip it in.”
I inserted it.
“Another,” she said.
I did the same thing a second time.
“Again,” she said.
And a third time.
This continued until there were more ice cubes in her pussy than in a tall glass of lemonade.
“Now fuck me.”
At this point, the eroticism of what I had been doing had me rigid. Timidly I inserted the tip of my penis just a bit into her ice-packed pussy.
It felt cold. Freezing, to be exact. But not unpleasant.
“Fuck me!”
She likes to go from zero to balls-deep in under a minute.
I slide my rod all the way into her snow cone. There was a curious mixing of hot and cold and wet, since all the ice cubes were melting pretty rapidly inside her.
We had hardly started to stir her dirty Shirley when she said, “Go get more ice.”
I pulled out, feeling a chill on my thermometer, and got another tray of ice.
I inserted my manhood to her ice bucket and as I fucked her, the friction creating heat and melting her internal coolant, she reached over and took fresh ice cubes and, one-by-one, slipped them into her slit over the shaft of my cock. The tightness, the alternating hot and cold, the slip-sliding of the cubes inside her pussy, was unlike anything I had ever felt.
“Should I put a few in my ass?” she whispered.
I couldn’t answer and before I knew it, she was spreading her ass cheeks with one hand and putting the cubes in with the other.
“Do you want my ass, Daddy?”
I did. I did, so bad.
I pulled out and slid my hot and cold compress into her smaller icebox and within mere seconds I melted her heart with the heat of my love.
I pulled out and all the white, watery liquid spilled out of both holes as she stood up to go to the bathroom. It quickly dribbled down her inner thighs to her feet and puddled on the hardwood floor, leaving a trail from the bedroom to the bathroom. I suddenly heard a loud rattle. Her remaining ice cubes slipped out and crackled on the tile floor.
“Whoops!” I heard her call.
When she returned, she got on her knees beside the bed and looked up at me.
“Did you like that Daddy?”
“Very much, Lo,” I said.
She licked my balls and continued up my cock and then took the tip of my flaccid shaft into her mouth. “Can I be your cock-warmer, Daddy?” she asked before taking the entire length of it in her mouth and resting her head gently on my inner thigh.
[To be continued. . .]
Lo’s cockwarmer
Protected: Sister Sadist
Victory Lap
As she made the ‘OK’ sign with her index finger and thumb, my hard cock filled the hole of that universal hand-gesture that indicates everything is alright. And everything was better than alright. She was lying under my arched, naked body, her left hand doing the bare minimum necessary to still qualify as a hand-job. I was doing most of the work, thrusting in and out of her digital aperture. She was lying naked on her back, her right hand doing more work on her clit than her left on my dick. But, hey, it’s not a competition. I was pleased. She was pleasing – herself and me.
“That’s it, you big, bad dog,” she said in a sultry tone, referencing the taboo topic of her acquired technique.
She knew exactly what that would do to me. She plays me like a fiddle with her nimble fingers, though I’m sure she’d rather play a long, black clarinet that requires both hands to get the proper fingering and also the use of a wet mouth and tongue to blow all those Ds loud and with proper dynamics.
Within seconds my baton was conducting the final climactic notes of this symphony.
As I write these tortured metaphors, I can hear Lo laughing and saying, “Symphony! P’shaw, more like a minuet.”
Be that as it may, she was covered in pearlesque droplets from chin to chest.
Holiday Glaze
I fell back onto the bed, relishing the sweet release she uncorked for me.
But she, rather than lounge in the lethargic bliss I was enjoying, hopped out of bed, put on her jeans and a tank-top, and said, “Do you want to come walk with me?”
Or, at least that’s what I understood her to say. What she actually said was, “Do you want to cum-walk with me?”
“What?” I asked groggily.
“Cum-walk.”
“I don’t want to walk.”
“No, Daddio, a cum-walk.”
“What’s a cum-walk?” I asked, finally understanding what she was articulating.
“It’s like a walk of shame. A stride of pride, a victory lap, the trek of triumph, the Something About Mary hommage,” she said with a French accent.
“Since when is that a thing?”
“Oh, old man, hurry up, get dressed, and I’ll tell you as you accompany my for a strumpet stride through the neighborhood.”
“Ok, ok,” I said, laughing, “You’re killing me with these colorful combinations of colloquialisms for cum.”
“Say that four times fast!”
“Where’d you learn all those?
“Eskimos have forty different words for snow and I. . .”
“Forget it. I don’t want to hear what precipitated your poetic euphemisms.”
When I was dressed, we walked outside, arm-in-arm. She was proud to have the origin of her adornments accompany her as she displayed her latest accomplishment.
She said hello in a flirtatious voice to the others who passed us by on the delightful spring morning. Out of the corner of her eye, she tried to spy if they looked carefully enough to discern what was glinting in the sunlight on her cheek, chin, neck, and shoulder.
“So, when did this become a thing?” I asked again.
“It’s always been a thing. I mean, remember the time at the nude beach when you came all over my face and tits?”
“Which time?”
“Oh, Daddio. The beach with the geriatric gentlemen who genuflected at my altar.”
“Right. Yeah, so?”
“Remember, after you rained your love down on me, we walked together, saying hi to the beachcombers.”
“Yeah, I remember, fondly.”
“And the time I met that very nice athlete in the park.”
“You mean the big black guy who came on you?”
“You have a good memory for an old man.”
“That’s why I write these things down – to keep your paramours straight.”
“Oh, straight is ok, but I prefer kinky paramours.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Anyhow, after he came on me and I walked up to you dripping with his jizz. That also was a cum-walk.”
“I see.”
“Are you going to write about this one?”
“Of course I am, even if no one believes me.”
“They don’t believe you, Daddy?”
“Lo, you can understand that a lot of people find you unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“Morning,” said a passerby.
“Hi,” Lo chirped back in a perky voice. Her tits were perky too in her see-through white tank-top.
Lo’s braless top
“Getting a lot of looks,” I remarked to her.
“Yeah, but I made the wrong choice.”
“How’s that?”
“They’re all looking at my chest, not my face.”
“Ah yes, the age-old dilemma. What’s the reaction you’re looking for?”
“I’d just like a tall, dark, and handsome man to give me a long stare that says, ‘I know what you just did, you slut.”
“I think you take too much pleasure in this.”
“Oh, Daddio! The only thing more pleasurable is when it’s leaking out of my puss through my panties and shorts at the same time as it’s on my face.”
“Do you have a special name for that walk?”
“The Double-Stuff Strut, The Cream-Pie Promenade, The Spit-Roast Saunter.”
“I should have known.”
admiration
Illustrator Needed for Disney Damsel Lola Down
Belle’s Bestiality, Getting off to Lola Down together
“Daddy,” she complained, “diddling my bean is fine, but it’s not as much fun as when it’s diddled by someone else.”
“You want me to diddle your bean?” I asked.
“What I mean is, a surprise. A stranger. An unexpected diddle.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, “the serendipitous fappening that one finds unbidden upon the side of the road, in a bar, or wherever one may get one’s jollys jilled on a sunny spring day.”
“Without putting it quite so poetically, yes. After all, it is May. Masturbation Month. Hooray! Hooray! The First of May! Outdoor fucking starts today!” she sang.
“Sounds like you’re the poet.”
“Oh Daddio,” she pouted, as she continued stroking her smoothly shaved pussy on the bedside. “That’s older than you are.”
“A relic from Chaucer’s time then.”
“Maybe as old as Beowulf.”
Her climax was building until she shot a small stream sprinkling up through the air onto the tile floor, much like a shot from a water pistol.
“And what, may I ask, put you over the edge that time?”
“The thought of meeting Grendel in the woods.”
“Grendel diddles Little Lo’s pink riding hood. How literary.”
“Grendel, the Big Bad Wolf, I’d even take Gaston.”
“I bet you would! Or all three, if you were in a crossover series.”
“I like that idea. A Disney fairytale staring Lola Down.”
“Would you be the villain or the princess?”
“Both.”
“Both? Disney stories are not that complex.”
“It would be the story of how Princess Lola Down is usurped from power by the effigies that are made of her in the city because they all depict her naked, like Lady Godiva, but they come to life, like Galatea, and strip Lola of her throne and her clothes. She wanders about the streets, a naked waif or harlot, until one day, through her own power of understanding, she relinquishes her claim to all the reproductions of herself, thereby releasing them from her true essence and allowing them to live on as mere likenesses. By giving up her hold on them (or the hold that she wrongfully believed she had on them), she deprives them of the power they had over her and thus they yield back the throne to her once more.”
Lady G.
Pygmalion and Galatea
“So, you’re victim, villain, and hero?”
“That I am. And you know what else I am?”
“What?”
“Horny.”
“Well, have fun.”
“What?! You’re not going to fuck me? Give me your sword!”
“I’m going to go write that down. You know what they say, the power of the pen is mightier than the sword.”
“Perhaps, but far more diminutive,” she said as she pulled out her huge dildo and held it up in the air as if commanding a great army to victory.
As I sat at the desk writing this story, she impaled herself several times with the wobbly weapon until, finally striking to the quick, she died a glorious death at her own hands. La petite mort.
The Art Cums Alive
